Prologue
by Gary MF Oak
Summary: Imagination is allowed to run amuck, as is a two ton Nidoking. Grit and gore.


Prologue

Bullets skittered across the pavement in front of the flipped truck that Pvt. Mallory was taking cover behind. The sharp, solid slamming of the salvo against the truck's undercarriage was beginning to blend with the frantic rhythm of Mallory's heart being beaten against his charred steel helmet to form a dire chorus. Blinded as he was by adrenaline fueled fear spasms, Mallory's training provided him one undeniable truth. He was going to die.

The rebels' ambush had been furious and swift, taking down seven of the eight men in Mallory's squad – taking down all but Pvt. Mallory, that is. Their brutal trick had been simple; a fake IED planted on a car in a crowded mall parking lot to get the squad called in, and real IEDs on the twelve cars surrounding the decoy to incinerate said squad, over 5 million dollars in property, and the peace of mind of a nation. Mallory had been saved by the quick thinking of dead men, but now he was alone and cut off from any covered escape routes, in a word: dead.

The bursts of death coming from the rebel position trickled to a stop, and allowed Mallory a moment's grim respite. He had heard of the insurgency's policies on "prisoners," and he wanted no part of their hospitality. Exhaling deeply, the Pvt. allowed his tense body to relax a hair. A flock of Pidgey were passing rather lowly overhead, a Pidgeotto at their head, and the noise of their tan and white feathers softly cutting the air had a soothing effect after the bombardment, the contrast was surreally comforting.

Then came the screams.

Mallory pressed himself flat against the truck, trying to fuse his flesh with the vehicle's steel hide, but the truck was still. There were no shots annoying it's resilient underbelly.

"Bastards are targeting civilians," thought the Pvt., his teeth grinding to near powder at the sound of tearing metal. Sliding down the length of the truck, Mallory craned his head to spy through the one remaining side-view mirror, which pointed towards the twisting wails, and promptly evacuated his bowels in such a manner that only befits a man marked for death.

Some fifty yards away a Nidoking was pulling a man from the belly of a mutilated van chasse.

The unearthly howls erupting from the terrorist's face poured vainly over the beast's visage, as he lifted the young man to its eye level, some eight feet in the air. With one monstrous, clawed hand on each shoulder, the hulk held him there for a moment, as if savoring the situation. Three other men wearing the black and red of the rebellion stood around the van emptying their weapons on the Pokemon, but any indirect shots glanced easily off his glossy armor, while any direct hits simply crumpled against his body and fell lazily to the ground, however, if the Nidoking could even feel such trifles he gave no sign. His attention remained fixed on the terror-crazed man in his grasp, his bestial façade all but showing a grin as he drank in the fear. Then he began to pull.

The separation of the right side of the terrorist's body from the left was at first slow. Clothing ripped, the screams of the man grew higher in pitch – more hysterical. Blood began to flow from where the King's claws held the man fast by the shoulders. The animal halted his rending at this point, absorbing the new octave achieved by the insurgent – tasting it like a fine wine. The man's accessories had by this point stop shooting, and stood instead dumbfounded with horror, one pulling out chunks of his own hair in grief and terror.

Finally the man's mind mercifully broke from the pain, and he blacked out. The Nidoking seemed displeased by the ceasing of the screams and shook the limp body like a recently emptied bottle, trying for one last drop of anguish. Finding no more pleasure in the man, the monster's gaze turned back to his compatriots. Ripping the unconscious man in twain with one effortless gesture, the King hurled half of his frame at one man, and half at the other. This being done in a matter of seconds, the beast lowered his great head to the remaining man, a trembling wreck, and rushed to impale him upon the massive horn there.

Mallory shrank to his knees behind the bullet-blistered truck, and grasped his eyes. He had no words to scream, no prayers to whisper, and no breath to wrangle into his fear-shrunken lungs. The smallest of whimpers slid meekly from his pale lips as the Pvt. sat cowering behind the truck, listening unwillingly to the gore-sounds and low roars coming from the other side. Bitterly, he wept. With difficulty Mallory crept to his feet once more to check the mirror. However, there was nothing to be seen.

The mirror was completely dominated by a deep, brooding black. The Pvt. stood dumbly in the Kantonese sun staring into the night-black mirror, his senses blunted by fear, and then it blinked. Mallory's heart and a death-scream of unmatchable fervor fought to escape his mouth at the same time as the monster on the other side of the truck roared in delight.

From half a mile overhead, a spy drone's unblinking eye watched the parking lot and Pvt. Mallory disappear into the earth as a giant fissure opened up in it's center.

"This is the way the world ends

Not with a bang but a whimper."

― T.S. Eliot

-SH

9-15-2011


End file.
